


simmer down and pucker up

by santiagone



Category: Archie Comics, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, F/M, Gen, Pining, Soulmate AU, so much pining!! you have no idea, yes i'm trying this!! wish me luck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-09 07:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12882828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santiagone/pseuds/santiagone
Summary: “Betty,” Jughead interrupts. His voice is lower now, and the resignation might even be scarier than the yelling. “We’re not soulmates. Wecan't.”And therein lies the crux of the problem.





	1. do i wanna know

**Author's Note:**

> should i be working on the last chapter of wonderstruck?? yes. am i here instead?? undoubtedly.  
> anyway, this draws influences from soulmate aus, gilmore girls, and brooklyn nine, so make of that what you will!!  
> also: there are mentions of underage drinking here (they're seventeen) if thats something that makes you uncomfortable.
> 
> title and lyrics from artic monkey's 'do i wanna know'

 

_So, have you got the guts?_

_Been wondering if your heart's still open and_

_If so I wanna know what time it shuts_

_Simmer down and pucker up_

_I'm sorry to interrupt it's just I'm constantly_

_On the cusp of trying to kiss you_

 

.

.

.

 

They're seventeen, sitting at the pier of Veronica's fancy lake house, feet skimming across the water, playing the dangerous game of trying not to get their shoes wet. She’s wearing a sweet little sundress, her shoulders bare and freckled (but her wrist always hidden by a band), feeling both self-conscious and adored in the clothes Cheryl picked out for her. Jughead’s shirt is unbuttoned, revealing the white of his tank top underneath, his jeans rolled up at the ankles. He, too, has carefully chosen to keep his wristband on.

Betty uncurls a hand in an attempt to catch a firefly, to no avail, and to her right, Jughead is watching her, that familiar amused smile pushing its way onto his features. Inhibited, like he always gets after one drink too many.

“What do you think?” Betty wonders, a little tipsy herself. She feels delightfully warm, kissed by the sun all over even though it's twilight.

“Of life in general?” says Jughead lightly. “Not as advertised. Two and a half stars on Yelp.”

Betty rolls her eyes, slowly, letting her head fall onto his shoulder, pressing in close, pretending not to notice his shudder.

“I meant of this summer, with us. With me. Aren't you glad I convinced you to come?”

“Hey,” Jughead protests softly, his voice rumbling from where they touch. “You, in no way, shape or form, were the one that convinced me to come. I had to endure three weeks of nagging from Archie, Veronica, _Kevin_ —”

“But _I_ only asked you once,” Betty murmurs, “and the day after, you agreed to come.”

“Yeah, well,” says Jughead, and Betty waits for a bit, but he says nothing more. Slowly, very carefully, she lets her finger reach down and trace across his wristband. Innocent, by any means, but Jughead gives a full body shiver, and she smothers a smile. A part of her can't help but wonder whether the inked name under the band might be hers, if she might be so lucky.

“Alcohol makes you bold, Betty Cooper,” he manages after a moment, crooked smile pulling at his mouth.

Betty pulls back so she can get a better view, eyes tracing the eyes she’s known for all her life, the jaw she’s seen since puberty, the face that she’ll never forget.

“I’m not that drunk,” she says, insistent to the very end, and blinks at him. “Tell me what you thought, Jug. Of this summer.”

He hesitates, then, but Betty knows he's just thinking. She's seen that look before, in the roots of various investigations, in the late nights fluffing up pieces for the school paper.  Maybe, on occasion, she’ll even admit to dreaming about that look on a rare night or two.

“I think that my summer could have been a lot worse,” Jughead says, slowly, eventually.

She smiles at him, bright and soft around the edges, just the way she feels. “Wow,” she murmurs, leaning her head back to examine the sky, at the streaks of gentle orange and intrusive pink mix in seamlessly with the blue and black, like bruises, or badly arranged flowers. “That's almost a rave, Mr. Jones. You’ve mellowed in your old age.”

“I’m seventeen, not decrepit,” says Jughead, mouth twitching with amusement. When she glances back at him, he’s still watching her.

“No, you're just a slave to the troubled youth aesthetic,” teases Betty, and he rolls his eyes.

“You make me sound like the love interest in a teen indie movie.”

“I’d watch it,” she says innocently, letting a smile spill from her mouth, messy her edges a little. “Though of course, some might consider me bias.”

“Really?” Jughead asks, smug, with hints of sly, in that Jones way Betty knows is passed down from his father. “How so?”

“You _know_ how so,” Betty says, arching an eyebrow and reaching over to shove him gently in the shoulder. He grins at her, and whatever teasing comment that's been formulating in her mind suddenly dies, like the flickering flames of Veronica’s unattended bonfire.

“Juggy,” she says quietly. “You're my best friend.”

It's Jughead's turn to arch an eyebrow, his mouth twisting a little in the corners, in that way he gets when he doesn't really believe something.

“I thought that coveted role went to Kevin. Or Veronica, or Archie, or Polly.”

“Hey, I'm _allowed_ to have multiple best friends,” Betty defends, a move that he'd been expecting judging by the way he tilts his head back and laughs. She lets her hand slink around his arm and pull it close, the faint buzz of alcohol wearing off, but the confidence lingering. “But this is different. You're different.”

There's silence for a beat, and Betty worries that she's said a little too much, but then, “You're awfully cliche for a supposed journalist,” he says, voice several degrees of soft.

“It's the Cooper branding,” she says, tongue swiping out to wet her lips. Jughead's eyes follow the movement for a split second, but the moment Betty blinks he's watching her eyes again, looking slightly sheepish.

“Jughead,” she says compulsively, feeling a tingle spread from the tips of her toes right to her splayed fingers. Transferring static electricity right across to him, she likes to imagine. Her heart seems to skip a beat, then two. Potentially lethal, but a little intoxicating. She can't decide whether she likes it.

“Yes?” Jughead asks, voice a little lower. Warmer, like sepia dripping into his words, like newspaper print and old film and melting seals onto letters.

“Are you a virgin?”

Jughead’s mouth parts a little, his eyes going rounded in a way that makes her smile and rub the fabric of his sleeve between her finger and thumb.

“Betts,” he says after a prolonged moment, “who, precisely, do you imagine me to be having sex with?”

“Not sure,” Betty admits smoothly, but her cheeks feel the slightest bit warm. “You brood, you wear leather. Doesn't that class you as a _bad boy_?”

“If by bad, you mean bad at social interaction,” he says wryly, and she allows the corners of her mouth to tilt. He hesitates for a split second; she can see it in his eyes. “Are you?” A virgin?”

Betty smiles at him then, features straying right into the territory of teasing. “Who, precisely,” she says lightheartedly, “do you imagine me to be having sex with?”

Jughead laughs, his gaze turning up to the sky, leaning back on his palms. “Well, aren't we just defying expectations of the teenage dream?”

She smiles at him, that funny warmth spreading from her stomach and out to her toes, her fingertips, to formulate in a cherry blush that Kevin would no doubt tease her for if he were here.

“Yeah, well,” she says, feeling a little thrill at echoing his earlier words.

“I kind of guessed, you know,” Jughead says after a moment. He's still staring up at the hazy streaks in the sky, but the back of his neck is a little pink, which Betty privately finds amusing.

“You guessed?” she presses.

“Not in a creepy way,” Jughead says instantly. “Just… It's kind of like… the tradition, right? To.. to save yourself for your soulmate?” _Soulmate_. The word hits Betty like a freight train, and she fixes her gaze on her palms.

“Yeah,” she says. “It seems like a Cooper thing to do, right?”

“Doesn't mean you have to do it,” says Jughead firmly. Betty snaps her head up. He's watching her, eyes flickering between her hands and her eyes. Her fingers close in to hide her scars instinctively, but Jughead doesn't comment on it. Instead, he tilts his head a little bit. His tell, Betty realises. “You don't have to do anything your mom tells you to.”

“I know,” says Betty.

He fixes her with a look. “Sometimes I don't think you do.”

Something swells in Betty’s heart at her expression, something that isn't entirely uncommon, something that seems to crop up whenever Jughead’s in the room.

Her heart beats once, twice. She looks up at him through her eyelashes.

“Betty?” he says, and she leans in.

Kissing Jughead is like watching a really good movie for the first time. Thrilling, having your heart clench in all the best moments, and over far too quickly.

“Betts,” says Jughead in the moments after he's pulled away. He's breathless, eyes a little wide, but her nickname falls out of his mouth so easily that Betty reels back, her heart thudding at a million miles an hour.

“What are you doing?” he manages, and Betty licks her lips anxiously.

“Juggy—” she tries, “I thought… I think I—”

“Betty,” Jughead says, like it's being wrenched out of him. He lurches to his feet, and Betty clambers up after him, throat working. “We can't. We _can't_.”

“Why not?” Betty says stubbornly, digging her heels in and jutting her chin out at him, despite the fact that the high of their kiss is wearing off much faster than it's supposed to, despite the fact that she's feeling suspiciously close to crying. “Don't you—Don’t you like me?”

Jughead shakes his head, a bitter sound falling from his throat. “It doesn't matter whether or not I like you.”

“It matters to me!” Betty says desperately, fingers reaching out for him. He snaps away, looking physically pained for a moment, and she lets her arms drop to her side. “Juggy, why not?”  

“Because!” Jughead scoffs finally, throwing his hands up. “Because my wrist doesn't have your name on it, Betty! And because I'm willing to bet that my name's not on _yours_ , either.”

Betty stifles a sob. “Jug—”

“Betty,” Jughead interrupts. His voice is lower now, and the resignation might be even be scarier than the yelling. “We’re not soulmates. We _can't_.”

And therein lies the crux of the problem.

 

.

.

.

  


Betty learns about soulmates when she is six. The Coopers are hosting a summer barbecue, an idolised sort of affair that every cliché coming of age movie seems to showcase. And because the Coopers like to perpetuate the idea of that quaint suburban, white picket fence family aesthetic, there are balloons, and faintly played generic jazz music, and little boys and girls running around in their Sunday best.

The Andrews are here, and Kevin and his dad have made an appearance, and despite many protests the Jones’s aren’t invited to the soiree (Betty is too young to understand why right now, but in the future she'll resent the fact), so Betty sits in the garden with Kevin, away from where Archie and Ginger Lopez are having a water fight, and picks at her burned burger patty.

Kevin peels the tomato out of his burger, and Betty catches a glimpse of black lettering when his sleeve lifts up.

“What's that?” she presses, already having learned all the Cooper tricks even at the ripe age of six.

“Soulmark,” says Kevin, feeding his tomato to Vegas, who’s snuck over from next door.

“Soulmark?” Betty echoes, and Kevin nods, giving her a strange look.

“Yeah. Don't you have one?”

Betty thinks about the milky white skin of her wrist, the veins and freckles that adorn it. No lettering, though.

“No,” she says bluntly.

“Then you’re lucky,” says Kevin, building his burger back up, now tomato-less. “My dad doesn't like mine. I can tell.”

“Why?” Betty asks, still thoroughly confused, her fingers combing through Vegas’s long fur.

“'Cause it says Joaquin,” says Kevin, “and that's not a girl's name.”

He doesn't say anything else, like that's supposed to clear the whole situation up, like she's supposed to _understand_. But she glances at the pale skin of her wrist, and finds that she understands nothing at all.

 

.

.

.

 

 _Then you’re lucky. Then you’re lucky. Then you’re…_ Kevin’s words roll around in Betty’s head, clear as the day that were spoken eleven years ago. _Then you're lucky_ , he'd said, but it doesn't feel at all like it, not even a little bit.

After the disaster, Jughead takes off and Betty sinks into the ground again. Now the sky just seems condescending instead of beautiful. _You screwed up,_ it tells her, and she has to agree.

God, she's so _stupid_. She likes Jughead, she likes the feelings he gives her when he walks in the room, the way he can make her smile at the drop of the hat, the way he knows when to reach out and uncurl her fists. She had convinced herself she might have even loved Jughead, all those nights romanticising tiny moments and reminiscing every accidental brush, but the truth is, she doesn't know what love is. She might _never_ know what love is. Because in this world, when you don't have a soulmate, how are you supposed to know who you really love? And what are the chances that they’ll even love you back?

 _Low_ , Betty thinks, gazing miserably off into the direction that Jughead had fled. _Very low_.

 

.

.

.

 

When Betty is twelve, she develops a fully-fledged, heartbreaking crush on Archie. (Or at least, as heartbreaking as anything can possibly be at age twelve.) She falls in love with the fairytale romance from the movies, of the boy from next door and the childhood friends trope.

It's just coming up on Archie’s birthday when Betty finally decides to let him know just how she feels. She enlists Jughead’s help and they turn Archie’s treehouse into a clubhouse any kid could have dreamed of, with balloons and food and a bizarre mixtape of 60s classics (Jughead) and early 2000s top hits (Betty).

Betty texts Archie to _be here at three!!!_ with lots of emoticons, and for a bit Betty and Jughead argue over which movie Archie would prefer to play on the projector. (Betty thinks it's _Home Alone_ , Jughead says it's _Jurassic Park_ , although they both agree it might be wishful thinking.)

It gets four, and Betty thinks he's running late. Then it turns five, then six, then it's seven and Betty's staring at a phone with no messages and Jughead is just staring at her.

“I’m putting on _Home Alone_ ,” he says firmly, and Betty wants to hug him for it.

Later, halfway through the movie her phone dings, and Betty uncurls herself from Jughead’s side and climbs over him to read the message.

“Archie’s found his soulmate,” Betty says, mouth dry. “It's why he didn't make it. He says he's sorry.”

“He's always sorry,” says Jughead, pausing the movie as Betty sinks into her sleeping bag. He glances at her, and wordlessly they both curl up on their mattresses and turn off the flashlights.

Betty stares at the ceiling and listens to the crickets and thinks about Archie, and the matter of soulmates, and the fact that her wrist is so frustratingly blank.

“Is he your soulmate?” Jughead says, so softly she almost misses it.

Betty toys with her wristband and blinks back tears. “No. But some stupid part of me thought that it wouldn't matter.”

“You're not stupid, Betty,” says Jughead, and Betty can almost imagine his face as he says it. She smiles, a little. “And it shouldn't matter. Soulmates, I mean.”

“Doesn't mean it doesn't,” Betty says, and turns over on her side. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” says Jughead, without missing a beat. “Then tell me how on Earth you can possibly think _Home Alone_ is better than _Jurassic Park_ . There's _dinosaurs_ , Betts. _Dinosaurs_.”

Betty smiles at the ceiling, a little glad he can't see her expression in the dark.

“It’s completely obvious,” she says, and the night hurdles on.

 

.

.

.

 

After a little while, Betty finally picks herself up and wanders back to Veronica’s summer house. The light in the kitchen is on when Betty tentatively opens the door, and for a moment she's afraid that she’ll have to look Jughead in the eye knowing what it's like to kiss him. Instead, her eyes focus and Veronica turns around from the bench, eyes soft.

“B? Honey, what’s wrong?”

“How do you know something's wrong?” Betty asks, letting the door shut and dropping her jacket on the hanger.

“Jughead stormed in about an hour ago, looking like someone had stomped all over his beanie,” says Veronica, eyes pulling into that of sympathy. Betty presses her eyes shut and lets her head fall against the door.

“And you assumed I’m the one who did that,” says Betty. _Because I'm a trainwreck waiting to happen,_ she doesn't finish.

There's the sound of heels clicking on the hardwood floor, then a hand on her arm. Betty cracks her eyes open to see Veronica frowning at her.

“No, I saw your running mascara and took into account that you are one of the three people Jughead actively spends his time with.” Veronica’s eyes narrow, peering in closer as she reaches out to swipe the supposed mascara off Betty’s face. “Have you been drinking?”

“Only a little,” mumbles Betty, turning her face away. “I screwed up, Ronnie. He's never going to look me in the eye again.”

“Oh, B. Drinks and feelings are never a good combination,” says Veronica. “What happened?”

“I like him,” says Betty after a moment, like she's gasping to get the words out. “I like him, and I haven't had the best track record with telling people on time, so I just… kissed him.”

Veronica doesn't seem the slightest bit surprised, only searching, in a soothing kind of way. “And?” she presses gently.

Betty fixes her eyes on her palms. “He said we had to stop. Because—Because we're not soulmates.”

“Oh, honey,” says Veronica, pursing her lips. Within moments, she’s being bundled into her arms, in an action that reminds Betty of childhood, of safety and that idealised perception of warmth. That's something Jughead would say, she realises, and stiffens a little at the thought.

“I'm so stupid,” she mumbles into Veronica’s hair. “I thought it wouldn't matter. I thought he'd say that soulmates were a social construct, I thought he'd say that the whole thing was artifice and bullshit.”

“That does sound like Jughead,” Veronica agrees, but she pulls back to look Betty in the eyes. “But Betty, Jughead isn't Heath Ledger in 10 Things I Hate About You. Nor is he Holden Caulfield, or Jess Mariano, or any other obscure reference that the Riverdale High student body tends to throw at him—me included. He's probably just as confused as you are, as any of us are.”

“I'm not confused,” Betty says, swiping adamantly at her tears. “I know what I want. Who I want. I don't _care_ about the name on my wrist.” She hesitates. “Or at least… at least, I don't want to.”

“All of us care about the our soulmarks, no matter how much we want to deny it,” says Veronica kindly. “I did. I used to stay up every night wondering whether Archibald was a forty year old divorcée. Luckily for me, I found my redhaired dreamboat. You will too.”

“Maybe,” says Betty, more so as not to quell Veronica’s starry eyed and romanticism. But in the end, it's different for Veronica. She _found_ her soulmate, and Betty doesn't even have one.

 

.

.

.

 

When Betty returns from her babysitting stint, the first thing she sees is the open door, the window curtains blowing in the wind, the first warning of things to come. Then, she follows the trail of foreshadowing down the hallway to the kitchen, where her mother and Polly are standing on either side of the kitchen island, equally red in the face, looking every bit like mother and daughter. Betty is fourteen, and Alice and Polly don't even notice that she's come home.

“You can't _do_ this!” Polly is yelling, her fury making her tremble. “It's _my_ life!”

“It's a life you're throwing away!” Alice shouts back, her hands slamming on the marble bench. “So help me God, this is the last awful thing that damned Blossom boy is doing to you, ever. You are _not_ seeing him again.”

“I love him,” says Polly, voice cracking. “I _love_ him, mom, and I—”

“It doesn't matter!”

“It does,” says Polly, “It does, it _does_ —”

“He's not your soulmate!” Alice explodes, and the room goes deathly quiet. Betty can hear the pounding of her heart louder than anything else in the world. “He's not your soulmate, Polly. You can't be with him.”

“No,” Polly says firmly. She looks strangely manic when she is crying. “ _No_. You're just bitter because soulmates aren't all they’re cracked up to be. You’re just bitter because your soulmate lead you into a loveless marriage, into a nuclear family. You and dad never loved each other, not really, and you're fooling yourself if you think I'm going to fall into that same trap—”

“How dare you,” says Alice, steely. “You have no idea what I have done or why I did it, Pauline, so don't you dare. _Ever_.” The silence that results is chilling, deafening. Betty can't stomach the tears or the screaming anymore. Quietly, she collects up her stuff and climbs up the stairs.

Right before she gets into the safety of her room, Betty hears Polly, so faint that she might have imagined it.

“What about the baby?”

Betty slams the door shut, her breaths shallow. She feels sick to her stomach, she feels woozy. On autopilot, she grabs her phone, and the line connects on the second ring.  

“Betts?”

“Jug,” Betty gasps, “I’m just—what do you do when it's all falling apart? I'm not—”

“Betty?” says Jughead, concern evident even through the phone. “What's wrong? Are you okay?”

“My sister’s pregnant. With Jason Blossom's baby,” says Betty, fingers digging into the plastic case of her phone, searching for purchase on her skin. “He's not her soulmate.”

Jughead doesn't say anything for a long time. He doesn't offer her comfort or say _it's okay_ or do anything remotely cliché or sympathetic, which is exactly why she'd called him, she realises.

“What can I do?” he says instead, and Betty sinks to the floor and lets her head hit the side of her bed.

“Just… distract me,” she says. “Please.”

“Okay,” he says. “So JB called the other night and I’m still convinced she loves you more than me, because she said that…”

Jughead provokes a smile, and a tiny laugh, and when she finally sets down the phone a whole three hours later and stares out the window, she's left wondering why she didn't call Archie instead. He would have been over in a heartbeat, he would have offered her a hug and ice cream and free access to Vegas for a week.

But she didn't want Archie in that moment, she realises. She wanted Jughead. And maybe, just maybe, that means something.

 

.

.

.

 

Later, after Veronica has dried her tears and they shared several chocolate eclairs from the Lodge’s state of the art freezer, Veronica bids her goodnight and sends her away to get some sleep.

It must be nearing midnight, Betty realises, as she traipses up the stairs feeling like her shoulders are carrying a million weights. Which is why she's so surprised when the door across the hall opens and Jughead slips out.

He looks tired, she thinks. His hair is messy, his beanie is gone. He's wearing his pyjamas (or at least what he constitutes as pyjamas) but he doesn't look like he's slept a wink. His wristband is off, but she can't bear to look at the name that gets to be something Betty isn't allowed to be.

“Sorry,” she says on autopilot. “I'm—it's late, so, sorry.”

“It's my fault,” says Jughead, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. “I was just—”

“Hungry,” Betty finishes knowingly, and immediately feels ten times more awkward when Jughead’s expression softens. “I know you, Juggie.”

“You do,” he says quietly, rubbing at the tanline on his wrist. Betty kicks her gaze away and focuses on her palms.

 _Screw it_ , she thinks, and blurts out, “Sorry. For everything. I’m sorry for messing everything up and—god, did I take advantage of you?”

Jughead actually cracks a smile at that. “No, Betts.” He softens again, even more, and Betty bites her lip, hard. “It was a good kiss.”

“The point is,” says Betty, firmly steering herself back on track, “I shouldn't have said anything. I was drinking and I shouldn't have kissed you and I didn't mean what I said, and… I—I guess you’re right. Soulmates matter.”

“Betty—” says Jughead, but she's making a beeline for her room in case she decides to do something dumb, like cry again, or kiss him again, or ask to see his soulmark.

“Have a good night, Juggie!”

The door closes. She doesn't see his expression.

 

.

.

.

 

They’re fifteen and Jughead is curled up on the floor of Betty’s room, on a spare mattress that her mom had very pointedly dragged down from the attic and placed a safe distance from the bed.  

The end credits for _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ are rolling (her pick, although she thinks Jughead secretly has a thing for Audrey Hepburn), and Betty scrolls through a selection of carefully chosen movies for Jughead to pick from.

“This is like picking the lesser of evils,” says Jughead, suddenly appearing at her shoulder, his breath warm on her neck. He smells like popcorn and cigarette smoke.

“You lost the bet,” she reminds with a laugh. “Fine, I'll pick. Let’s see... _Pretty In Pink, It Happened One Night, Roman Holiday, Bringing Up Baby_ …” She falls back on her bed. “Ugh, why are these all _romance_ movies?”

“Colour me surprised, Betty Cooper _doesn't_ fantasise about her perfect romance?” says Jughead wryly, smiling down at her.

“Of course I do,” says Betty with a sigh, pulling herself up to rest on her elbows, “I have to cling to the cliché _somehow_.”

Jughead turns down the laptop brightness. “Then why the long face?”

“Not sure,” says Betty instinctively, staring up at her floral patterned wallpaper. There's uncharacteristic silence from Jughead, and when she glances back down he's giving her a doubtful look. “Okay, maybe I'm crumbling a little. But everyone I know is happily in love, or dating, or they know who they're looking for and I just…” _Don't have a soulmark_ , she wants to say. But strangely, the words won't spill off her tongue. “I'm scared I'll never have that,” she says instead.

“You will,” says Jughead, so sure that she wonders whether he rehearsed it.

She peers at him from over the edge of the bed. “How do you know?”

“I just know,” he says, and a certain warmth settles over her even though it's mid January and ready to snow. “You're Betty Cooper, you’re practically the dream. Even if it takes some people a while to realise it.”

“Okay,” she relents, feeling a bit pink. “Thanks, Juggy.”

“ _Roman Holiday_ ,” is all he says, flashing her a grin and reaching for the laptop. “That's the movie we’re watching.”

“I knew it!” says Betty. “You have a thing for Audrey Hepburn.”

“Nah,” says Jughead, climbing into the bed and settling down next to her, all sorts of cosy despite the weather. Betty thinks he might be watching her out of the corner of his eye. “She's not my type.”

Betty laughs. “What is your type, Jughead Jones?"

Jughead rolls his eyes, an action that is almost audible. "You know my type."

"Do I?" Betty muses.

"Yeah." Jughead's definitely watching her now, not the movie. "You do."

 

.

.

.

 

Betty can't sleep. Maybe it's the way Jughead’s lips had felt on hers, slightly chapped and full of feeling. Or maybe it's the way he'd looked when he said _we’re not soulmates,_ or maybe it's just Betty’s insomnia acting up.

Be what it may, it's not long before Betty lurches out of bed and reaches for the phone, fingers dialing a familiar number.

“Betty? It’s one in the morning.”

“Yes, and I'm having an emotional crisis,” Betty says, voice hushed, fingers twisting in her sheets.

“Say no more,” says Kevin instantly, sounding far more intrigued. “Drama sustains me. Tell me all about your sordid love affairs.”

But strangely, she can't find the right way to say it, she can't quite convey everything she's feeling to Kevin (which, admittedly, is a lot).

“It's about Jughead, isn't it?” Kevin says after a moment, and then seems to laugh at her faint noise of surprise. “You’re not as subtle as you think, Cooper. Besides, I'm a sucker for the childhood friends trope, and you can't even deny that you are too.”

“I tried that already with Archie,” Betty points out, settling down beside the window, overlooking the pier that had set everything in motion. “You saw how that turned out.”

“Yes,” Kevin agrees, “but Archie—bless his beautiful six pack—was like a pair of handcuffs before Veronica came along. Good for sex and criminal activity, but really shitty on the romance front.”

“And is Veronica the key or the policeman in this metaphor?” Betty says wryly.

“Hey!” says Kevin. “This is a serious matter, Sally.”

Betty frowns. “Sally?”

“ _When Harry Met Sally_ , iconic movie, we are definitely watching it when we get home,” Kevin says with an air of his usual impatience. “Betty, stop deflecting. I _know_ you. I know you’re scared, I know you're worried about your blank wrist, and I know that you will happily sacrifice your own happiness for others’ because you care too much. But Jughead is a good guy, Betty. I watched you two grow up together, I’ve seen how much he cares about you. Honestly, you want my advice? You need to say whatever it is you want to say. To his face, no bars, just Simon Cowell honesty. But maybe nicer.”

“What if I hurt him?” Betty says, biting at her lip. “What if, the next day, he meets his soulmate and he decides that I'm not good enough, that he doesn't want me? What if the fact that I don't have a soulmate isn't okay with him?”

“Well, I believe you wouldn't have to worry about that, because he’d be dead, and I have an in with the Sheriff,” says Kevin, and Betty laughs, just a little. “Seriously, Jughead wouldn't never do anything to hurt you. He'd never jeopardize your friendship or be deliberately cruel, right?”

“Right,” agrees Betty softly, thinking of how Jughead has always been there for her without fail, has always been that flannel-covered shoulder to cry on. “Definitely right.”

“Good. Then be _brave_ , Cooper. Figure it out. And phone me immediately afterwards, I want to know everything.”

“Okay,” says Betty, laughing. “Thank you, Kev. Really. You know, you're the only person I've ever told about my wrist, excluding my family.”

“Yeah, well,” says Kevin, but instead of Jughead, he actually finishes his sentence. “You don't have the view that I have. It's like a Nicholas Sparks movie waiting to happen. And, hey, Betty? I'm rooting for you.”

“You know what,” murmurs Betty, flicking to the messages app, “I think I am too.”

 

.

.

.

 

“Sweet sixteen!” cheers Betty, pressing a kiss to Jughead’s cheek. He fixes his gaze on his food and goes a little pink, and across the booth Kevin stifles a snicker, both of which goes unaware by Betty.

“Technically I'm not sixteen until tomorrow,” says Jughead, although that doesn't stop him from accepting the piece of cake that Betty offers.

“Yes, but I’m busy tomorrow and you and Archie always go to the double feature without me,” Betty reminds, passing Kevin a fork.

“Yes, and I am nothing but a casual witness, who tagged along for Betty’s nationally renowned triple chocolate cake,” Kevin interjects helpfully. “Big slice please, Betty.”

“Sure,” says Betty, before glancing at Jughead with a poorly concealed smile. “But also, I got you a present, Juggy.”

“You didn't have to,” says Jughead instantly. “Seriously, Betty, I don't care about that stuff.”

“I know,” Betty reminds with a roll of her eyes, “I wanted to.”

“She really did,” says Kevin around his fork. “She spent an unhealthy amount of time obsessing over it.”

Betty grows a little warm. “It wasn't _that_ long, Kev.” Regardless, she reaches under the table and produces a lovingly-wrapped parcel.

Jughead accepts it with trepidation, his fingers brushing against hers as he opens the packaging. Betty chews her lip in anticipation, studying his face carefully as he finally gets through the packaging.

“A laptop,” he sighs, sounding a little stunned. “Betty…”

“It's not a new brand, and Veronica helped me get it cheaply off the internet, before you say anything,” Betty interrupts. “I just… know you like to write, and I noticed you hadn't been bringing your old laptop in so I just assumed it was broken.”

“Betty,” Jughead says again, and when she glances up, she sees his lips are kicked up in the corners, his expression a little soft. “It's perfect. _Thank you_.”

“You deserve it,” Betty says, and he tilts his head a little at her (his tell) and for one precious, startling moment, she wonders whether something crazy, something wonderful is going to happen.

Then, Kevin coughs, and Jughead jerks his gaze away.

“Bathroom,” he says, wedging past Betty in the booth. Across the table, Kevin is trying to hide his grin in his slice of cake, and Betty narrows her eyes at it.

“What? Kevin, what's so funny?”

“Nothing,” says Kevin airily, although he looks far from it, “Nothing at all.”

 

.

.

.

 

 _juggy? are you up?_ __  
__  
_perpetually. are you okay?_ __  
__  
_i will be. can we talk?_ __  
__  
_yeah. down the pier in five?_ __  
__  
_outside??? it's the middle of the night_ __  
__  
_don't tell me you're scared, cooper_ __  
__  
Betty grins down at her phone without quite meaning to, feeling the familiar patterns of anxiety creep into her head. It's just Jughead, she knows, and he never fails to make her smile, but this is a little bigger than giving him a birthday present. __  


_in your dreams, jones!!!_ she fires back, and quietly makes her way down the stairs.

Jughead's already there when Betty makes her way down in bare feet, listening to the water ripple gently. She sees him before he sees her; he looks achingly familiar in his pyjamas and without his beanie, and he smiles at her awkwardly when he spots her.

“Hey, Jude,” he says, and she pauses.  
   
“Dated reference. I like it.” On instinct, her eyes travel down and search for his wrist. He's wearing his band again, and Betty’s not sure whether she's relieved or more worked up at the sight.  
   
“Yeah, well,” he says again, reminiscent of earlier, and that seems to jumpstart her into action.  
   
“Hey, I'm… really sorry. About everything,” she says, and Jughead raises his eyebrows at her, not unkindly.  
   
“You already said this, Betts. You don't have to keep apologising. Especially not to me.”  
   
“Yeah,” Betty agrees, taking a small breath, “But… what I said earlier, about not meaning anything about what I said… that wasn't entirely true.”

The words seem to resonate for miles. Strangely, it doesn't seem world-ending, just… true. Jughead blinks.

“Oh. Okay. So…”  
   
“Yeah,” Betty finishes, feeling rather pink in the face. “I do. And I think I might have for a while now, but…” She fiddles with the edges of her sleeves, chewing at her lip. She'd planned out what she was going to say earlier, but now that she's actually hear, looking into his eyes, it's both easier and harder than she expected.  
   
“What you said about soulmates,” she continues a little shakily, “I heard you. And I get it, and it doesn't _matter_ to me, not really. But it matters to you, so I guess…” She blows out a breath, lifts strands of hair away from her face. “I think I blew up a little earlier, think I overreacted. I mean, my whole life, soulmates have been a _disaster_ . My parents don't really love each other, Polly loves someone who's not her soulmate, Kevin’s soulmate broke his heart, and I…” She cuts herself off abruptly. “Well. I guess my perception of soulmates is kind of twisted. But what I'm _trying_ to say is… it's okay if you're waiting for your soulmate, and it's definitely okay if it's not me. I never expected anything, I still don't. I'm not going to lie and say I don't like you, because… well, you make me smile. But I would _never_ hold it against you.”  
   
Jughead’s expression is so tender that she can't almost see every unreadable emotion flicker across it, the way his mouth parts like he's trying really hard to let go of something, and for a moment, that stupid hope of hers kicks up a rhythm again.  
   
“Betty,” he says quietly, “I’m sorry.”  
   
“Don't be,” says Betty, biting down hard on her lip. “It’s like what you said before. We’re not soulmates. We can’t.”  
   
“I'm sorry,” he says again, glancing at her wrist. His jaw tightens momentarily. “But if you… I don't think I could…”  
   
She wants to tell him then, right then. But then she thinks about how he might feel obligated to return the favour, how she’ll finally have to see the name on his wrist, how she’ll be forced to remember that Betty Cooper is destined to be alone while everybody else gets to be happy.  
   
When she was a kid, her dad had told her that being unmatched meant she was free to choose exactly what she wanted. But Betty doesn't feel free. She feels trapped.  
   
“Nothing has to change,” she says instead, voice wavering, unconsciously rubbing at her wristband. “We can still be friends, _best_ friends, and I'll just… deal with it. Okay?”  
   
Jughead hesitates, and it looks like he's having an internal war with himself, like there's a myriad of things he wants to say but no way to say it. That stupid hope of hers comes back to life for one last breath, and then Jughead presses his mouth closed and shoves his hands back into his pockets.  
   
“Okay,” he says, “But that was a damned good kiss.”

"Yeah,” says Betty with a small smile. “Yeah, it was, wasn't it?”


	2. dancing with our hands tied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. Jughead’s life isn't great, and he's seen a lot of sad things.
> 
> And yet, watching Betty Cooper walk away might be the saddest thing of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lyrics from taylor swift's "dancing with our hands tied", although for listening purposes I'd recommend "singing low" by the fray.

_ I loved you in spite of _

_ Deep fears that the world would divide us _

_ So, baby, can we dance _

_ Oh, through an avalanche? _

_ And say, say that we got it _

_ I’m a mess, but I'm the mess that you wanted _

 

.

.

.

 

By all accounts, Jughead Jones has not lived a particularly joyful life. Sure, it could be worse, but from a natural pessimist’s point of view, life events such as waving goodbye to your mother and sister, visiting dear old dad in jail every other week, and the impending threat of your neighborhood’s favourite gang at the door don't  _ really _ add up to a fairytale life.

So, yeah. Jughead’s life isn't great, and he's seen a lot of sad things.

And yet, watching Betty Cooper walk away might be the saddest thing of all. 

 

.

.

.

 

The day of Jughead’s sixth birthday, their ratty Sunnyside trailer seems to brim with happiness. His mom makes pancakes for breakfast and manages not to burn them, and little Forsythia (whom Jughead is still searching defiantly for a nickname for) doesn't even cry all day. On occasion, Jughead can hear his dad’s voice floating through the house, affecting voices and making Gladys laugh.

_ I’m hooked on a feeling, _ blasts their tiny second hand radio,  _ I’m high on believing _ … 

Gladys sticks a candle on the pile of pancakes, and Forsythia waves at him clumsily from his old high chair, too young to know what's going on. FP ruffles Jughead’s hair, and it's not perfect, but as Jughead will find out when he gets older, it's the best he's ever gonna get.

“Happy birthday, baby,” says Gladys, pressing a kiss to his hair as FP checks the phone for messages.

“They’re for you, kid,” says FP, beckoning him towards the receiver with a knowing smile. “I'd take good note if I were you.”

The first one is from Ethel Muggs, who is perfectly polite in her wishes for a happy birthday, followed closely by message from the local supermarket confirming shift changes for his mom. Then—

“Juggy!” cheers the voice of Betty Cooper, bright with familiarity and her normal morning glow. “It's Betty. Happy birthday! I got you a present but you’ll have to wait until Monday to see it, okay? Okay, have a really good day, goodbye!”  _ End of message _ , says the answering machine.  _ Would you like to play again?  _ Instinctively, Jughead reaches out to select one for yes. “Juggy!” chirps the voice again. “It's Betty. Happy birthday! I got you a present…”

“Who was that?” says FP, who is still grinning knowingly when Jughead returns to the table.

“Just Betty,” Jughead says, shoving a bite of pancake in his mouth.

“Oh, those Cooper girls are just adorable,” says Gladys with a sweet sigh, guiding a spoon to her toddler’s mouth. “Although where they get it from, I don't know.”

“That Betty sure is something,” FP agrees, and over Jughead’s head, he and Gladys exchange a glance full of all sorts of meaning. “If I didn't know better, I'd almost say…”

“Almost say what, dad?” Jughead asks, fork halfway to his mouth.

FP reaches over and pulls Jughead’s beanie over his eyes. “Nothing, kid. Eat your pancakes.”

Jughead shrugs, mood unaffected. (He  _ is _ only six, after all.) But as the morning sun slips through the windows, it catches on Jughead’s arm, highlighting his freckles, that one scar from when he went tree climbing with Archie, and an exposed, blank, wrist. 

 

.

.

.

 

_ We can still be friends, best friends _ , Betty’s voice is playing, on a looped stereo in his head, and he can't quite get it to stop. He's always imagined that his relationship with Betty would inevitably end in the friend zone (loathe as he is to use that kind of terminology), but he never thought it would be from  _ his _ end.

But the way she'd looked down at the pier… Before, with the sun dappled in eyes and her lips pressed against his, veering off the end of chaste and straight into him tasting the cheap bear on her tongue; and After, with her hair curling in the breeze and the moonlight highlighting every one of her goosebumps and freckles, glinting off her silver wristband.

That  _ damned _ wristband, that stupid, horrifying expectation of soulmates. Fuck. Jughead hates everything right about now.

Because for one brilliant, shining, short-lived moment, he'd  _ had _ Betty Cooper. He'd had Betty Cooper, and he'd let her go.

“Jug!” There's a knock at his door, loud and vaguely intrusive, but it does the trick for tearing Jughead’s thoughts away from Betty-related things.  _ Mostly _ .

“Betty made breakfast,” continues Archie’s unmistakable voice, effectively ruining Jughead’s short lived streak of not thinking about her, “and then we’re going down to the lake if you wanna come.”

Does Jughead want to accompany a group of people straight out of a Hallmark movie to the lake, where he’ll most likely be sunburned and poked fun of for it, or does he want to stay up in his room and brood with the latest draft of his novel?

Easy choice _.  _ But _ … Betty made breakfast, _ his head reminds him, and he groans, reaching for a signature grey shirt.

“I'll be there,” he says, opening the door to find Archie grinning at him.

Downstairs, the whole Breakfast Club is spread out at the table, chatting in a fashion that really shouldn't be this good so early in the morning. Archie, predictably, makes a beeline for Veronica, who is discussing something at serious length with Kevin and Reggie. Cheryl is sitting at the head (of course), eyes glued to her phone, a surprising smile tilting her lips up at he corners.

_ This is fine _ , Jughead thinks, taking a seat next to Archie.  _ This isn't that bad _ . Then, Betty walks in.

She’s carrying a plate of bacon, and her hair is loose, curling at her neck and pretty as ever. (Prettier, maybe, but he considers himself quite bias.) She looks a little tired, but otherwise mostly okay, and he wonders whether he should do something dumb like keep staring at her or just focus his gaze shamefully on his empty plate.  _ You said no, _ he reminds himself.  _ You said no, you don't get to act like this. _

Thankfully, Cheryl makes that choice for him.

“Jughead, dearest, I'm surprised that you're up,” she says, mouth pulled into a conniving smirk. “I was under the impression that you were raised by wolves. Or snakes, if you’d like to be more accurate.”

Jughead rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, Archie said the magic word.”

“He said please?” Kevin frowns.

“No,” interjects Betty, much to Jughead’s surprise. “He said breakfast.”

She stops by next to him, close enough that he can smell her floral perfume, and offers him the tiniest of smiles.

_ Crap _ , Jughead finds himself thinking unexpectedly.  _ This is  _ that _ bad _ . 

 

.

.

.

 

_ Bang! Bang! Bang! _

A thousand different colours take up purchase in the sky, courtesy of America’s need to exploit July Fourth as another overrated holiday. He’s eleven, curled up in the back of Fred Andrew’s truck, and almost elbow deep into a huge tub of popcorn. Across from him, Betty is looking up at the sky, eyes shining a little, hair curling in her ponytail. Between them is an empty spot reserved for a familiar redhead, although the seat and mess of blankets has long gone cold by now.

“He’ll be back soon,” says Betty, but Jughead's not sure whether she's talking more to him or herself.

“I hope not,” Jughead says, “I haven't eaten all his popcorn yet.”

Betty giggles a little, like the eleven year old that she is, and Jughead, remembering Alice Cooper’s thin mouth and sharp comments, finds his manners. 

“Want to help me?” he asks, shaking the bucket at her.

“No thanks,” says Betty, smiling at him. “Polly just got braces so my mom's banned popcorn from the house. Something about solidarity.”

Jughead frowns. “She won't know.”

“Trust me,” says Betty. “She’ll know. She has a radar.”

“Your mom is seriously the worst,” Jughead says, but it comes out a little more serious than he'd meant it to be.

Betty shrugs, but she doesn't seem offended. She never does; that's the beauty of Betty Cooper. But he thinks that might also be her curse.

“She means it out of love,” she says. “That's not so bad.”

Jughead thinks about his own mom, about how rarely he sees her nowadays, and never without a waitressing uniform on. He thinks about waiting around at Pop’s for her to get off work only to find her round the back with a cigarette, he thinks about the tightness in her eyes and the microwave dinners left out on the bench for him and Jellybean.

_ No _ , he thinks.  _ That's not so bad _ .

“Where do you think he is?” Betty asks, out of the blue, and Jughead realises that during his internal struggle Betty has been staring at the pile of blankets Archie has left behind.

“With Tina Patel?” Jughead guesses, a little confused when that makes Betty’s shoulders slump just a little.

“He's always with Tina Patel nowadays,” she says morosely, picking at a thread.

“Because he thinks she's pretty,” he says, because they're eleven going on twelve now, which is of  _ course _ the height of maturity (or more accurately, puberty).

Betty looks at him. “You don't think she's pretty?”

Jughead lets the butter from the popcorn roll over his tongue. “Um,” he says, a little unsure what the correct thing to say in this situation would be. He knows what Archie would say, and what Betty would say, but neither of those are particularly Jughead sort of statements, and he has no idea what Betty wants to  _ hear _ .

“Sorry,” says Betty after a moment, slumping back into her seat. “I'm just being paranoid.”

_ About what? _ Jughead almost wonders, and then his gaze catches on the way her fingers twist around her silver wristlet, the way she keeps sneaking glances at Archie’s empty spot. It clicks, and suddenly there's a funny little kick in Jughead’s gut.  _ Oh _ , he thinks.

“Do you think they're soulmates?” Betty asks, again, quite out of the blue.

“Why do you care?” he shoots back, stuffing some popcorn in his mouth to negate the weird feeling in his stomach.

“I don't,” Betty says back, just as quickly. He stares at her for a long moment, eyeing the red glow against her face from the lights, and the tiny spot right beneath her left eye. She bites her lip, then, and says, quite decisively, “Okay, you've sold me. Hand over the popcorn.”

“Traitor,” says Jughead, handing it over, still feeling just a little bit odd.

“Who's the traitor?” says a new voice, accompanied by a shock of red hair as Archie climbs into the trailer.

“I stole Jughead's popcorn, which he  _ offered _ to me, and now he's moody again,” says Betty, lighting up with a smile that makes Jughead very uncomfortable, for totally unrelated reasons.

“Hey,” says Archie, frowning at Jughead. “You never offer  _ me _ popcorn.”

Jughead shrugs, shifting over to make room for him. But as Betty and Archie pick up a conversation beside him, Jughead keeps thinking back to  _ why do you care?, _ and the obvious lie of  _ I don't. _

But maybe the more important question might be: why does  _ he _ care? 

 

.

.

.

 

“If you're going to pretend like you're not staring, you could at  _ least _ be better at it.”

Jughead jerks from his stupor to snatch a frown at Kevin over his book ( _ Lord of the Flies _ , for the eight hundredth time). “What?” he asks, dryly, squinting his eyes. They're at the lake, Jughead hidden under the relative safety of a beach umbrella. Archie, Reggie and the girls are splashing about in the water. Occasionally a whiff of polish fumes drift up from where Cheryl is painting her nails on an expensive sunlounger, and somehow, incredibly, Jughead has ended up sitting with Kevin.

Kevin, who Jughead only knows through Betty, through the stories she tells and the forced-friendship events she's always dragging him to. Kevin, son of the sheriff, but most importantly, Kevin, with a flair for the dramatic and an art for seeking out gossip.

“Please,” scoffs Kevin, “even  _ I’m _ staring at the girls, and I'm about as far removed from this heterosexual bullshit as possible. I can't imagine what it's like being half in love at the same time. Are you self-combusting right now? Or feeling the need? Because I'll get my phone out and we can create a viral video.”

Jughead's eyes flicker to the group in the water for just a millisecond, just long enough to catch a glimpse of Betty with her hair in a bun, a laugh on her lips, her modest swimsuit exposing the legs he'd always known she had but tried not to think too hard about. She's still wearing her wristband though, he notices, and something very dry catches in her throat.

“Can't you go and  _ Ellen _ someone else?” he asks roughly, focusing back on his book. “Like Cheryl?”

“Cheryl already  _ has _ Toni, despite how  _ Dr. Phil _ their relationship will always be,” says Kevin without missing a beat. “You, however, are fresh for the picking, and very bad at hiding your longing expressions. It's better than cable.”

Jughead fixes his gaze firmly on a new page, throat working. “I don't want to talk about this.”

“Don't play coy, Harry, it's not a cute look on you,” warns Kevin.

Jughead pauses. “Harry?”

Kevin sighs. “Seriously, has  _ no one _ seem the greatest romance movie of all time?  _ When Harry Met Sally, _ you film buff fraud.” His features melt into seriousness then, and Jughead gets the impression that this is something important to him, that Betty is important to him. He guesses that they have that in common. “Listen, you might not  _ want _ to talk about this, but your subconscious says you  _ need _ to talk about it. In this conversation alone, you've looked at Betty six times. Seven, now.”

Jughead realises then that he's been staring again, and his fingers tighten on the edges of his book. Inexplicably, Kevin seems to soften.

“Jughead,” he says, “what happened last night?”

Jughead's throat tightens a little. Betty's lips on his, that tear stricken expression. A familiar kick to his stomach.

“She told you about that?”

“She tells me about everything,” informs Kevin. “Also, you know. She needed advice. Not sure what the 'bro-code’ entails but it's generally considered healthy to talk about your feelings.”

Jughead exhales a little. So Betty had talked to Kevin about it. That means something, it means that what she had said carried weight, it means that she'd put careful thought and planning into her words, that he'd chucked it all away due to a self-sabotaging nature and the relative blankness on his wrist.

“What?” says Kevin, eyes narrowing. “Jughead,  _ what _ ? You better not have broken her heart. You said yes, right? When she told you she had feelings for you?” Jughead sets his book down, feeling a little in over his head, and Kevin gasps. “What the fuck, Jughead. What the hell is  _ wrong _ with you? I only encouraged her to go after you because I thought it would end in a happy ending—because I thought you loved her back!”

“Hey, it is  _ complicated _ , okay—” Jugheads forces out, but his mind is still stuck on  _ loved her back _ like a stupid idiot.

“No, it isn't!” Kevin is saying, shaking his head like  _ Dungeons and Dragons _ has been outlawed. “You're supposed to be together! You're supposed to—”

“Kevin,” Jughead says warningly. Their voices are rising now; the rest of the gang have paused mid-water fight, and Cheryl has even glanced up from her liqueur red nails.

“Come on, Jughead! This has been building up for, what, fourteen years now? And you're telling me you're just going to give it up? I know you love her, Jughead, and if I had seen a smidge of that in Joaquin's eyes it might have actually made me  _ proud _ to be his soulmate, so don't you dare—”

“Kevin!” And suddenly it's like everything Jughead's been feeling over the last couple of days has bubbled to the surface; Betty’s indignation when he cheated at Monopoly, the way he'd somehow been able to  _ taste _ Betty’s smile when she'd kissed him, the hours he'd spent agonising the best ways to tell her  _ I’m sorry _ , and—in the end, it's Betty. It's just Betty. He lurches to his feet.

“We’re not soulmates,” he says, low, hands curling into fists. “So, yeah, I'll give it up.”

“Bullshit,” says Kevin, in the biggest flare of determination Jughead has ever seen from him. “When have soulmates  _ ever _ mattered to you?”

Jughead can feel Betty’s eyes on him even from the distance she's at.

“Since they mattered to Betty,” he says, and leaves it at that.

 

.

.

.

 

“Okay, so don't forget the bake sale, and remember to be there early, okay? I mean it, Juggie, I  _ will _ blow up your phone with wake up calls if I have to.”

Jughead leans on the railing of the staircase and rolls his eyes at Betty (an action so familiar and practiced he might even call it suave). “Aye, aye, captain,” he says, and she huffs at him.

They're thirteen, fresh into high school, and puberty has hit Betty like a freight train. She's taller now, almost the same height as him, and there's a splattering of freckles across her cheeks from the summer holidays. Jughead has always known that Betty is pretty, but he's starting to realise that  _ others _ are beginning to notice now too.

“This is the last time I organise anything for you,” she warns, and although he realises she's teasing, his grin slips off his face a little, becomes a bit more bashful.

“Thanks, Betts. Seriously. This… it means a lot.”

She smiles at him through the strands of hair billowing into her face; sweet, and perfectly organic, a whole different smile to the ones in the Cooper Christmas cards he receives every year without fail. A better one, really.

“I'm just glad I could help,” she tells him sincerely, soaring a glance at her watch. “Shoot, I have to get home for curfew—but text me, okay? And call me if you need anything else.”

“I will,” he says, and just for good measure tacks on, “Could another form of help involve a batch of your famous sugar cookies?”

Betty purses her lips at him. “You never change, do you?” But as she slings her helmet on and bikes away, Jughead thinks he sees her trying her hardest to bite back a smile. He also knows that come Monday, Betty will be waiting for him with a box of cookies, because that's just the sort of person she is.

“Woah, Betty is  _ super _ pretty now. Are you sure you two aren't dating?”

And with that announcement, Jellybean, in all of her nine year old glory, appears around the front door with a sly grin.

“What would  _ you _ know about dating?” Jughead asks, rolling his eyes.

“A lot more than you,” Jellybean says, sticking her tongue out at him. She sits herself down on the steps, pulling on a familiar pair of dirty green converse (they used to be his), and he joins her without invitation, reaching out to ruffle the single pink streak in his sister’s black curls. Toni’s influence, he thinks. “If you're not going to date her, can I?”

“Jelly,” says Jughead, trying to pass his laughter off as disapproval. “You're  _ nine _ .” 

“Don't worry, big brother,” says Jellybean, propping her chin up in her hands. “I get it. Betty’s off limits.”

“Yeah, off limits to everyone  _ except _ her soulmate,” Jughead reminds, with a funny little twinge in his stomach.

“Whatever. Soulmates are so stupid,” says Jellybean, in a firm declaration that surprises him.

“I thought you loved your soulmark because Alex is a unisex name,” he says, and Jellybean pulls a face.

“Yeah, but if my soulmate is supposed to be Alex _ Waters _ from karate class, I'd rather have no soulmate at all,” she says, quite fiercely. “If the universe finds me a better Alex, cool. But until then I'm gonna find my  _ own _ soulmate. You should too—preferably with Betty.”

“Jelly,” Jughead groans, but his little sister just flashes him a cheeky grin. “Okay, traitor, let's go inside. I’m starving.”

Unexpectedly, Jellybean’s hand shoots out and grabs his arm. The purple of her nail polish highlights the paleness of both of their skin, and the way her eyes have rounded a little.

“Actually,” she says, very quietly, “Can we go for a walk instead?”

“They're fighting again, aren't they?” Jughead says, letting the disappointment drop off his tongue. Every once in awhile there’s a happy stretch where the Jones family can pretend that they’re a perfectly functional family, that the art of soulmates hadn't royally screwed over Gladys and FP Jones. Then, more frequently, there are moments like this, where the spell breaks.

“Let’s go to Pop's,” says Jellybean, in her way of answering. She leans down and reties her shoelace, and suddenly Jughead is reminded of how little she is. She acts like she's older than him sometimes, like she's a sixteen year old in a nine year old’s body, and sometimes he forgets who she is. His little sister, with her pink streak and her soulmark theories.

“Sure,” he says. She gets to her feet, and he slings his arm around her shoulder, and they both pretend not to hear glass shattering in the trailer as they walk away.

“You know, if you marry Betty, you could have  _ unlimited _ sugar cookies.”

“ _ Jellybean _ .” 

 

.

.

.

 

“Jughead?”

After approximately fourteen years of knowing Betty Cooper, Jughead should have guessed that this moment was coming. But Betty is constantly surprising him with her kindness, and her habit of never letting things go, and a tendency to give too much of her heart away for people who don't deserve it.

People, you might even say, like him.

“Juggie?”

When Jughead finally tears his thoughts onto a different track, he notices Betty hovering tentatively by the door, features pulled into concern. She notices him noticing, and offers him a tentative smile, which he grips onto like a lifeline.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hi,” he says, resisting the urge to pull his beanie over his eyes in sheer self-pity. “Sorry for, you know. Causing a scene.”

“It's not a scene unless there's a dramatic score playing in the background. Or tears,” says Betty. “Trust me, I’m friends with Cheryl Blossom.”

“You guys are friends?” Jughead asks, raising an eyebrow in spite of herself.

Betty shrugs, but her expression is fond. “It's a morally grey area. Besides, she's part of the family now—and what's family without a complex and turbulent relationship?”

“Sardonic is a good look on you, Cooper,” he says, feeling somewhat vindicated when Betty smiles down at her shoes. Neither of them say anything for a moment, and Jughead realises she's tugged on a sweater and some shirts over her swimsuit, but her hair is still dripping onto the porch. It's reached the ninth drip when Jughead finally sighs and unfolds his arms.

“So how much of that did you hear?”

“None of it,” says Betty, looking quite earnest in her quest to make him believe it. “I promise. Although Kevin did mutter something about 'being idiotic’ when he walked past, but you know him. He should be gifted the Oscar for most dramatic.”

“Yeah,” agrees Jughead wholeheartedly. But then he glances at her again, at the way she pulls at her bottom lip with her teeth, and suddenly sighs. “But in this particular situation, he may have been right.”

Betty hesitates for a split second, and then seems to throw caution to the wind, settling herself down next to him and tucking her knees up to her chest. She's very careful not to let their shoulders brush, like they normally would, and Jughead is suddenly struck with the reminder that she  _ likes _ him. Betty Cooper, for some absurd, impossible reason, has picked a loner weirdo in a world full of Archies, and Reggies. She likes him—or at least, she thinks she likes him, or… Well. It's a mystery Poirot might have trouble solving.

“You're thinking too hard,” says Betty, the sunset reflecting in the green of her eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” he says instinctively, and Betty glances down at her hands, like that's what she'd been expecting. Strangely enough, that’s what gives him pause. “I was thinking about soulmates,” he says, finally.

“Oh,” says Betty after a moment. Her eyes widen a little. “ _ Oh _ . This is because of me, isn't it, because I screwed everything up yesterday—”

“What? Betty,  _ no _ ,” he says sharply. His hand reaches out to touch her shoulder without thinking, and their eyes both drift to the movement like it's a crime scene. His breath catches.

“Betty,” he says again, gentle but firm. “You didn't screw anything up. You couldn't. What's going on is just my tendency for existential crises.”

Betty blinks up at him through her eyelashes. “But what I said—”

Jughead squeezes his eyes shut for a split second. He's not sure if he's ready to say it yet, but Betty needs it. This.

“Betts,” he says finally. “What you said yesterday wasn't a screw-up. I know that because it's one of the best things I’ve ever heard in my life. When you asked me whether I liked you back, I didn't answer, and I should have. I do, Betty, I do like you back.”

Betty's mouth parts, and her eyes are impossibly blue. Her cheeks are dusted with the faintest of pinks, and the constellation of freckles on her cheeks reminds him of when they were thirteen, hanging out at the charity bake sale.

“Juggie,” she manages. She does that thing with her lip again, pulling it between her teeth, and later, that's what Jughead will blame it on. He kisses her.

She curls into him immediately, warm and soft and a thousand other levels of inviting. Her hair tickles at his nose, and when they finally pull away she's so close that he can make out every tiny detail of her widened pupils.

“We can't, can we?” says Betty, voice splintering a little as Jughead struggles to regain his cognitive skills. “Because you care about what's under our wristbands. Because you're scared of what you’re going to find under mine.”

“Aren't you?” Jughead asks, a little desperately.

“No,” says Betty, eyes wet. “I spent seventeen years being scared. I'm not anymore.”

“Betty…” he says, quietly. Her fingers find his wristband and run along the edges, and he flinches away instinctively. He doesn't want to know what she’ll do if she sees, but more importantly, he doesn't want to know what the and under her band says. Because it's sure as hell not him, and it's sure as hell gonna hurt if he falls in love with a girl who's intended for someone else.

“It's okay,” says Betty, in a voice that betrays otherwise. She presses a kiss to his cheek, and then disappears back into the house.  _ But it's not okay _ , Jughead thinks. They are no levels of  _ okay _ to describe this. 

 

.

.

.

 

When they are fourteen, Toni and Jughead go out on a date. They're kids, caught up in a world of gang violence and trailer parks, with twenty eight dollars total to their name, so all they do is head out to the Pop’s. And it's  _ fun _ , but it's not really anything different from what they usually do, and halfway through, Jughead realises that they only called it a date because society's heteronormative ideals had decreed that girls and guys couldn't be friends.

They share a kiss (Jughead’s first), which is a little stiff and a lot weird, and Jughead laughs when Toni makes a face as she pulls away.

“Friends?” she says, looping her arm around his shoulder.

“Definitely,” he agrees. “Although we’d make a great couple.”

“Nah,” says Toni, flicking her pink hair. “We both have soulmates to look out for.”

“We do?” Jughead asks, eyebrows raised, because Toni Topaz is one of the very few people in his life who is aware of the total non-existence of the name on his wrist, because he trusts her—and because she'd accidentally broken his wrist in the eighth grade and gotten a peek at his wrist.

“Of course,” says Toni smoothly. “Mine is the devil incarnate, and yours is Betty Cooper.”

“What?” Jughead says, jerking away from Toni’s grip. “Betty Cooper?”

Toni rolls her eyes, arms folding over each other in a way that says  _ don’t try to fool me, Jones. _ “Obviously Betty Cooper. What other girls do you like?”

“This isn't a scene from  _ High School Musical _ ,” scoffs Jughead instantly, “I don't like Betty. And she is definitely not my soulmate.”

“Aw,” says Toni, snagging one of his previously guarded fries. “You're cute when you're in denial. But come on, you and I both know that the names the universe put on our wrists is bullshit. We make our own destinies—or some other cliché crap like that. Betty Cooper means something to you, whether you like it or not, whether the universe has decided it for you or not. Isn't it good that you’ve developed feelings because they’re real, and not because some stupid ink on your wrist told you to?”

Jughead says nothing for a long pause, instead opting to stare into the swirls of his black coffee, thinking about the way Betty had pulled an adorably disgruntled face when he'd convinced her to try some once.

“I do not like Betty Cooper,” he tells Toni warningly, but the words feel a little bit numb on his tongue. “Also,” he adds, just for something to say, “I’m not sure I would call Cheryl Blossom the devil incarnate.”

“Right,” agrees Toni. “She’s the devil in Prada. My mistake.”

The bell above the door rings as Jughead rolls his eyes, and Toni seems to brighten in a way that's perpetually suspicious.

“That's my cue to leave,” she tells him with a grin, throwing some crumpled cash on the table. “Thanks for the awful date, Jones.”

Jughead is, naturally, rather confused by this until Toni’s pink hair and leather jacket disappears and is replaced with a blonde ponytail and collared shirt.

“Betty,” he says in surprise, unable to help his smile.

“Hey, Juggie,” she says softly, toying with the ends of her ponytail. “Um, I just saw Toni leave—did I interrupt anything?”

“Actually, I think you saved me from something,” Jughead admits, dreading to think what other deeply profound truths Toni might have provided him with had she stuck around. Probably Betty related ones, with his luck.

“Well, I brought some stuff from the Blue and Gold,” says Betty, the corners of her mouth kicking up into the sort of smile Jughead has become very well acquainted with. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“Only if you’re treating,” he teases, and tries to ignore the way his pulse suddenly picks up when Betty’s leg accidentally grazes his in her efforts to slide into the booth.

Jughead  _ really _ hates proving Toni right.

 

.

.

.

 

Jughead wishes that he could say the evening got better from there. Unfortunately, he could not.

(“Monopoly,” Veronica had said, very seriously, “is a true test of friendship. Daddy taught me that bankrupting a friend is the first sign of primal betrayal.”

“Please, Juggie?” Betty had interjected, offering him a shy smile from across the table. “You can be the top hat.”

And he’d, quite predictably, had caved.)

Now, it's three minutes past ten and he feels like he's come full circle to where he was this morning, except now he has even more torturous, wonderful experience with kissing Betty Cooper. God, he feels like a poorly written romance movie, or a badly acted subplot of a TV show. He's almost ready to throw in the towel and resign himself to being the classic stereotype of _ stupid self-martyr who rejects he best girl in the world _ when his phone dings.

It's Jellybean, her profile picture sticking her tongue up at him, his phone beeping in rapid succession.

_ look what I found, big brother!! _ says JB, with a winking emoticon probably just because she knows he hates it. He scrolls down the chat, and—

He stops. It's pictures, from when he was a kid. There's a few of Archie, and a lot of Jellybean, when he's a bit older and she's finally in the picture (literally). But the pictures that JB has sent seem to have a particular bias. A very adorable, very blonde bias.

Age five, and it's Betty, arms crossed, Cooper concentration fixed as she tries to teach Jughead how to ride a bike. Age seven, and he’s sandwiched between Archie, Betty, and a droopy-looking snowman. Age ten, and it's Jughead and Betty at a field trip to the museum, heads buried together in a brochure. Age thirteen, and he's hugging her after her ballet recital. Fifteen, and they’re dressed up for their first dance; Betty is in pink, and he's pulled up his suspenders. She’s kissing his cheek, a little shy with hints of  _ please stop embarrassing us, Mrs C, we’re going as friends. _

Finally, there's one from just a couple of months ago, that he hadn't even been aware was printed. It's them, in perfect candid, their faces lit up by the Fourth of July fireworks. Betty’s mid-laugh, her head tipped back in delight, and he's grinning at her, eyes soft, although it's hard to tell whether it's from the joke or just her.

_ Probably just her _ , Jughead thinks, dropping his phone with a small groan of frustration. He's trying not to let the warm feeling in his gut interfere with what his brain is yelling at him.

After a couple of minutes, his phone dings again. It's JB, with one last text.

_ remember _ , it reads,  _ unlimited sugar cookies _ .

The warm feeling interferes. Jughead gets out of bed and lurches himself into the hallway. (He never listens to his brain anyway.)

 

.

.

.

 

His mom and sister skip town three days after his fifteenth birthday. He watches Jellybean cry like a ten year old shouldn't ever have to as the car pulls away, and stands out there until even the dust clouds have settled. His dad disappears instantly. Jughead kind of wishes he could too.

There's a knock on his door the next day, and Betty is already hugging him before he gets the door all the way open.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbles into his shoulder, and Jughead presses her nose into her hair (vanilla shampoo) and lets himself feel a little bit better.

“It's okay,” he says on instinct, and is a little surprised when Betty pulls away and fixes him with a sharp look, rocking on the balls if her feet.

“It's not okay, Juggie. You don't have to pretend like it is.”

He's not sure what to say, so he lets her in. She seats herself on the couch, legs tucked up, face perfectly reassuring.

“Jug,” she says softly. “What happened?”

Jughead thinks about the shattered glass, the way JB used to crawl into his bed at night, scared but too stubborn to say it; how he’d pass her one of his earbuds and they'd watch some stupid buddycop movie to drown out the noise.

“Soulmates happened,” he tells Betty now. “They aren’t soulmates, and they tried to defy the odds anyway. It didn't work.” He thinks about the blank space on his mom’s wrist, and alternatively the name  _ Alice _ stamped on FP’s arm like a blatant throw in her face. “I mean, it's not like I didn't see this coming, right? Southside families are… historically nuclear, and challenging those statistics with a non-match? Not good odds.”

“Life isn't about statistics, Juggie,” says Betty, eyes round in sadness. Her fingers twitch, and after a moment she reaches over and slides them over his. “Neither are soulmates.”

Jughead squeezes his eyes shut and looks up at the ceiling, because he won't cry, especially not in front of Betty Cooper, and not for a shitty reason like this.

“I don't want to become like them,” he says after a moment. “I don't want to be thrown about by the whole soulmates thing. I don't want it to be like that,  _ I _ don't want to be like that.”

“You  _ won't _ ,” Betty says firmly.

“How do you know?” he says, voice breaking a little, and Betty squeezes his hand a little too tight.

“I don't,” she says. “I don't know anything about soulmates. But I have to  _ believe _ , and I believe that soulmate aren’t what defines your life for you.  _ You _ define who you are, and  _ you _ define who you love, and why, and for what reasons. And…” He opens his eyes, and she offers him a small smile. “And, at the risk of sounding like a Pinterest quote, I believe in  _ you _ , Jug. You're not going to be like your mom and dad.” Her fingers travel down and tap at his wristband, and he feels it,  _ electric _ . “Whoever’s under here, whenever you find them… it's going to be  _ right _ . It's going to work out for you. I know it, okay?”

Jughead thinks about the blankness of his wrist, about the possibility that he might end up just like his mom, tearing his family apart, in love with someone who's supposed to be with someone else. Then, he thinks about Betty.

“Okay,” he says, even as he's realising that there's only one name he wants to be written on his wrist. 

 

.

.

.

 

Jughead's knocking on her door before he can think twice. His heart is doing turnabouts in his throat, he feels strangely jittery and inpatient during the eternity it seems to take for Betty to slowly open the door and blink at him in confusion.

She’s wearing an oversized top and a pair of adorably bunched shorts, her hand rubbing at her eyes sleepily.

“Jug?” she says, “Are you okay?”

Suddenly, Jughead’s courage seeps down the drain. He can't find the right words to say.

“Juggie?” Betty prompts, looking a little more worried now.

“I don't want to be like them,” he blurts out.

Betty does a tiny doubletake that might make him smile in any other situation. “What?”

“Our parents,” he corrects. “I don't want to be like them. I want everything to be my own choice, I want to do things because I want them, not because the universe told me too. I want  _ you _ , Betty.”

Betty’s lips part, her tongue swiping at her bottom lip, her fingers twisting into her shirt.

“Jughead,” she says, impossibly soft, but he shakes his head.

“Wait, I just—I wanna get this out, okay?” He takes a deep breath. “I do like you, and I have for a long time. But I was afraid, because soulmates are so delicate, and fragile, and if you take a misstep everything can implode. And growing up, I saw things blow up in a major way, on a daily basis. I think we both did.”

Betty’s features soften. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “We did. But I wanted to do this. You didn't.”

“I know,” Jughead says. “Trust me, I  _ know _ . I've been killing myself over it. You're Betty Cooper, so you're fearless, and brave, and you do things without caring what the universe thinks of you. But I was scared of what soulmates meant—what they mean. I'm still scared. Because the thought of becoming like my mom and dad, watching you walk away, being your second choice…”

“I would  _ never _ do that—”

“I know,” says Jughead, cracking the tiniest of smiles at her. “I know. But they’re irrational fears for a reason, right? Anyway, my sister sent me all these photos of us as kids, and it just—made me think, about us, about everything. And I realised that throughout  _ everything _ , you've always been there for me. Whenever I needed, whenever I wanted.”

“You were there for me too,” Betty says, her grip slackening on everything. “No questions asked.”

“Yeah,” Jughead manages. “You never turned your head. You never walked away, not once. And I realised… I realised that I'm not scared of this whole soulmates thing anymore, because you’ll be right next to me. Because we’ll work it out.”

“Juggie,” says Betty, her voice sounding strangely breathless, like she's close to tears. “What are you trying to say?”

“I'm trying to say… that I want to show you my soulmark,” he says, fingers shaking as he pulls up his sleeve. “And that I want to be with you, regardless of what the universe is trying to say. If you’ll still have me.”

Betty gives an adorable, teary little snort. “Of course I'll still have you. But—” Her fingers land on her own wrist. “I want to do this too.”

“Betts—”

“You said we’d figure this out together,” Betty reminds him pointedly. “That starts here. Okay? If you're doing this, I want to do it with you.”

Jughead gets that unmistakable feeling again, the one that says  _ I want to kiss her _ . Instead, he lets his fingers linger on the clasp of his wrist, agreement unspoken as she does the same.

“Ready?” he says, very quietly, and Betty gives him the tiniest of nods. He holds his breath, because this is it. This is showing someone every part of you, this is telling the universe  _ screw you, we make our own happiness _ . This is Betty Cooper and Jughead Jones, after seventeen years.

They let the clasps fall, and—

There's nothing there. Nothing on either of their wrists, just milky white skin and a small accompaniment of freckles, and he's  _ stunned _ . When he looks up at Betty, she seems equally speechless, her lips still parted slightly, her eyes suspiciously wet.

Finally, after several long beats, Jughead licks his dry lips.

“Crap,” he says, “I guess the universe knew what it was doing.”

Without second pause, Betty lurches herself towards him, and he’s meeting her just as quickly, his arms encircling found her waist as she presses his lips against his. Absently, he recognises them moving forward and the gentle sound of the door clicking behind them, but mostly he’s lost in the way her fingers pull at his curls, the warmth of her body as she teeters on her toes to compensate for their height difference.

“Juggie,” she mumbles into his mouth, but abruptly peters off into a squeak as her legs hit the bed and they ripple into her sheets together.

“Directionally challenged,” Jughead says wryly, and swallows her laughter with another kiss.

Making out with Betty Cooper in her  _ bed _ , is exhilarating and breathtaking, like something straight out of a dream, and he wants to hold on for a little longer. But when her gasps get a little breathy and he's about five seconds away from actually moaning, he recognises that they have to stop.

“Betts,” he manages as he pulls away, smiling a little at her small whine. Her lips are heavily swollen and her hair is messy, and she still looks as beautiful as she's always been. (Maybe even more so, now that he can finally allow himself to admit it.)

She returns his smile, a little shy, her cheeks faintly pink, eyes shining. She curls in a little closer, into the crook of his shoulder, stifling a tiny noise, and he remembers she gets sleepy this time of the night.

Jughead lets his fingers trail over Betty’s wrist, in wonder if the veins there, in amazement that it doesn't read any name; that out of the whole world she might have chosen him.

“We were so dumb, huh?” Betty says, peering up at him through her eyelashes. “If we hadn't been so scared, if we had just shown each other when we were little… This could have happened such a long time ago.”

“I guess,” he considers, but then he remembers the photos JB sent him, how many days of happiness they’d spent together as kids. Slowly realising that he liked Betty Cooper, and of his own accord, because she is just  _ that _ good of a person, and not just because a name on his wrist told him too.

“Actually,” he says, pressing a kiss to her hair, “I think I like it better this way.”

“Yeah?” Betty sounds very hopeful, and sweet, in her own branding. “Me too.”

Jughead bites down his grin and stares at his wrist. When he was a kid, he'd spent days wondering what was wrong with him, faced with the realisation that he was going to end up alone. He’d hated the universe for being so cruel to him, but as it turns out… the universe knows what it's doing.

 

.

.

.

 

They’re twenty four, and Betty is wearing a white dress. The moon is shining on her hair, and glinting off the ring on her finger, and Jughead thinks he's smiled more today than he ever has in his life. (Except, maybe, for the day she said  _ yes _ .)

“And you're  _ sure _ about this?” he presses, fully anticipating Betty’s eyeroll.

“Jug, this was  _ my _ idea. And if you're getting cold feet—”

“I’m not,” he says instantly. “I’m  _ so _ not.”

Betty softens, and she links her fingers between his, a gentle smile picking up the corners of her mouth.

“Then let's go in,” she says, and she tugs him in lightly, even though she knows that he’ll probably follow her anywhere.

And it's only later, as they stroll back out of the parlour, and he's staring at the newly minted  _ Betty _ branded in ink across his wrist that it really strikes him.

“You do realise this is permanent,” he says, stopping her in the parking lot.

She's still smiling at him, her eyes impossibly soft in the way they have been since he said  _ I do _ with shaking hands.

“I do,” she says, hands coming to rest on his chest. He can just see the red patch of skin on her own wrist that reads  _ Jughead _ . “And so is this. Us. We make our own soulmates, remember? Unless you're backing out.”

“No,” he says immediately. “No way.” Her eyes flicker down in a telltale signs of her trying to hide how pleased she is, and he holds up his freshly tattooed wrist, wiggles his ring at her. “Hey, you’re my soulmate now.  _ And _ we’re married. You’re locked in for life.”

She laughs, then, head tilting back in delight, just like that picture from when they were seventeen, the one he keeps framed on his desk.

“You’re a dork, Jughead Jones.”

“You love me,” he tells her, as they head towards the car.

“Hmm,” says Betty, voice light with humour. “I guess I kind of do. Funny how that works out, right?”

“Yeah,” says Jughead, rolling his eyes. He stares down at the tattoo on his wrist for the millionth time, then at Betty, who is trying to pretend like she's not doing the same thing, and tries to bite back his smile. “Very funny.”

(Later, as they lie in bed, her fingers skimming his chest, he jolts a little in memory.

“Oh, by the way, you now owe Jellybean and I unlimited sugar cookies.”

“ _ What _ ?”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wasn't very happy with the turnout of this character, but I'm very glad that it's all done!! originally there is supposed to be a scene of their first date, a drive-in movie screening of when harry met Sally, courtesy of kevin. there was also meant to be a lot more jb and at least an appearance from archie but I had to cut them out to preserve the flow.
> 
> also, I've noticed that I alternate between juggy and juggie. which one do you guys think flow better??
> 
> anyway, happy holidays if you celebrate, as this will probably be the last fic until next year. if you have any fic suggestions, let me know, as i'm always looking for opportunities but never have the brainpower for plots!!
> 
> and as always, you can find me on tumblr at santiagone.


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